Do you ever count the things your husband has missed since he died? Or think about the amazing things that have transpired since you last had one of those, "You will never guess what happened!" conversations with him? I sometimes catch myself marveling about the ability of the world to continue in the aftermath of death and tragedy
And yet it does. Continually. And I thank God for that now, though I was horrified by the audacity of the sun in the days after Phil's death. How dare that big yellow orb keep rising! Hadn't anyone informed that celestial mass that Phil was dead? I remember clearly my first journey to a store after becoming a widow. The salesperson asked me in a very chipper voice how I was today. I stared at her for so long after she asked the question that she became uncomfortable. What she didn't know was that I was trying not to scream, or run, or lay down on the floor and cry.
When Phil last graced the world with his presence, my brother (pictured here with his wife and adorable baby) was single, and not sure he would ever have kids of his own. He lived the life of a single bartender in New York, and Phil and I talked about what a great dad he would be if he found a woman that could be partner, friend and mother to his children. When I saw this picture for the first time I wanted to say to Phil, "Honey, he found her!"
The day after Phil's accident, given a choice, I would have beamed myself straight up to heaven to be beside him. No thought, no hesitation, no fear. What I have come to realize is that I am now very grateful for the rising and setting of the sun. I appreciate that there is no choice involved in whether the sun will rise each morning, because some days I would rather it didn't.
But since the each day begins, whether I like it or not, I am given the chance over and over to make the best of the daily opportunity to live. And though Phil may not experience these milestones beside me, I still let him know when something happens that he just won't believe!